In His Arena 1: Slave Eternal

by Maksima, Nasia

  Alession loved salted dates. Before Stratos realized it, he had purchased more than he could eat. Fool, he chided himself. Tonight, as almost every night, Alession would be dining with her.

  He shot a glare at the white-swathed balcony across the way. The Empress.

  Hektor Actaeon might have burned out, but he hadn’t outlived his usefulness. After all, he was training the boy, and when the boy won the Grand Melee, he would stand before the Empress to receive his laurels. And then Stratos would invoke the power of the Ebon. Lucan would become his slave. The Empress would die. And Lucan?

  Stratos crunched down on another date.

  Lives were cheap in Arena.

  Chapter Five

  FIRST SKIRMISH

  Every victory

  In the Empress’s Theatre

  Brought a gladiator closer

  To gaining his name.

  —Nefertari Amon Actaeon, of House Actaeon, the Warriors

  “Move your feet!” Hektor bulled in, bashing with the shield, staggering Lucan back a pace.

  Lucan squinted one eye against the impact and the dust their sandals kicked up. After two weeks of rest, his side was still tender, but that didn’t keep Hektor from putting him through his training paces.

  All across the courtyard of the Ludus Magnii, trainers were running their novices through drills and mock-combat scenarios. Some fought with gladius and shield, others with net and trident. Others performed feats of strength, dragging heavy weights of stone behind them as their trainers whipped them faster with their canes.

  At least Hektor doesn’t whip me.

  The clash of Hektor’s sword against Lucan’s rattled up his arm and made his shoulder ache. The power of the man! Lucan took a moment to drink in the sight of him, muscular and sweating under the sun, stripped to the waist, all that tanned skin. Lucan wanted to run his hands along it, run his tongue along it, go to his knees before Hektor and—

  “Stop daydreaming.” Hektor’s admonishment was soft, but his blow was hard.

  He knocked Lucan sprawling, but this time, Lucan was ready. He touched one hand to the earth and used it as a pivot point. Spinning with the momentum, he launched back at Hektor. And now he allowed all his frustration and anger to drive him—the bout with Bull Neck, his resulting injury, the brutal training, the fact that maybe, just maybe he was coming to terms with what he wanted.

  It had been weeks since he’d been in the arena. Weeks gone by that could have seen him victorious and claiming his trophy, or vanquished and being claimed as the prize. Such practices were natural in the arena.

  And yet somehow, Hektor had arranged for Lucan to escape his duty in the Claim. He’d not had to plow Bull Neck’s ass that next dawn.

  Secretly, Lucan was glad, grateful.

  He didn’t want Bull Neck.

  With a sharp battle cry, Lucan launched at Hektor, his passes wild but fueled by anger and passion. He forced the primus palus back to his longspear. In all the times they’d sparred, Hektor had never had to reach for his primary weapon. Instead, he subsisted with a dull short sword, and still every time he defeated Lucan.

  Not today.

  For the first time, Lucan was on the offensive. He attacked. His sword an extension of his arm, he parried and riposted, advancing toward Hektor and then retreating. It felt like an intricate dance of give and take. Him dancing in, Hektor darting back. The rhythmic cadence of their weapons clashing formed a rhythm like two heartbeats, one catching up with the other.

  No. He didn’t want Bull Neck at all. He wanted—

  And then his sword was at Hektor’s chest.

  Lucan took a deep breath. He’d done it. He’d actually managed to get in on the primus palus.

  “Well done.” Hektor nudged the blade from his chest and clapped Lucan on the shoulder. “You are ready for your first solo bout.”

  Soft handclapping echoed nearby, taking them both by surprise.

  Stratos stepped out from the shade of the portico, a cup in his hand. “Yes, very well done, Lucan. And speaking of your first bout… Come with me.”

  “Wh-what?” Lucan stammered, but the look on Stratos’s face brooked no further argument.

  “The odds-makers liked what they saw of you in the group bout. They’ve called for your first skirmish.”

  Excitement and dread filled Lucan and warred sickly within him. The first skirmish would test whether he was worthy of participating in a full Spectacle, not just those entertainments, those Diversions. A true Spectacle.

  “Now?” Lucan’s heart seized.

  Stratos chuckled, not unkindly. “Yes. Now.”

  Hektor angled his body in front of Lucan, as though to protect him. “Houses are not allowed private first skirmishes, Quaestor Vulpinius.”

  Stratos’s smile was cutting, cunning. “Of course not, primus palus. I have arranged something in the Empress’s Theatre. How else shall the odds-makers know how to rank the fighters? And how shall the plebes know how to vote? Dear Elysia in Starshain, the entire system would crumble.” Humor tinged his voice, but his gaze was shrewd on Hektor. “There will be a few spectators in attendance, those who want to see man flesh vie against man flesh, but all for posterity’s sake. It will be nothing like a true Spectacle.”

  His smile was rapacious as he turned his attention to Lucan. “That is an honor you must earn, young Lucan. Now gather your weapons and come.”

  Lucan scrambled to do so, putting up his gladius for his net and trident. He paused to wipe the sweat from his brow. He didn’t look back at Hektor, but he could feel the primus palus’s disapproval.

  Helpless, Lucan followed Stratos as he strode from the courtyards of the Ludus Magnii.

  Several of the other novices turned their heads. A few nudged each other knowingly. The first skirmish was no small matter. How a novice fared and how the odds-makers rated him could set the entire course of his arena career.

  As they descended from the gladiatorial school to the bowl of the Empress’s Theatre, sunlight fell around them, in golden rays across the tiers of the Grand Palestra. Below, the openings of the various vomitoria tunnels seemed to stretch and yawn open. Novices poured out of them and began to gather on the sands.

  Some of the others were already in full bout.

  Lucan looked up. The huge awning that normally cloaked the stands and the edges of the theatre was pulled back. The full fury of the sun beat down upon the contenders. Their bodies were already streaked in sweat. Their shouts reached him, the sounds of battle echoing.

  “Hmm…” Stratos shaded his eyes to glance at the folded awning. “It would seem Her Imperial Majesty is not so gracious this day. Who would have thought such a thing?” His voice was mild, but his smirk betrayed his sarcasm. Without further comment, he turned back to the stair.

  They descended the last tier and made their way toward the final stairwell down into the amphitheatre proper, Hektor trailing them, a dark look on his face.

  Stratos grew even more smug, if such a thing were possible. “The odds-makers aren’t supposed to show favor to a novice before first skirmish, but…” He ran a hand through his tousled dirty-blond hair. “They have assigned you five-to-one odds.”

  “What?” Lucan could not keep his panic down.

  Stratos only shrugged and walked on ahead, leaving Lucan to stare after him.

  Hektor’s deep baritone startled Lucan. “Your opponent is favored to win.” The primus palus kept his gaze on Stratos’s back, his sky-blue eyes bright with anger. His expression softened when he looked to Lucan. “Do not let that stagger your resolve. Odds-makers are not always right.”

  They were nearing the lower quad, where the stairs came out onto the scorching heat of the theatre. Stray sand blew on the stairs, and Lucan toed through it as he fingered his net, double-checked the cord tied to his wrist. His trident was lead in his hand, his robes too thin, his right arm naked without his grandguard.

  In the first skirmish, they were not allowed armor.

  Str
atos waited at the edge of the amphitheatre. There were thirty or forty rings dotted across the vast expanse of the glittering sand, the arena carved up to accommodate a bevy of novices and weapon styles. Some, Lucan noticed, had special handicaps, like blindfolds or special weight classes where the combatants were matched by size and strength.

  Every single one of them fought as hard as they could, sweating and straining under the hot sun. It was a novice’s one chance to rise above group combats, above the honorless Diversions.

  A thrill caught Lucan low in the belly, and his fingers tightened on his net.

  Stratos walked him to the east side, to a ring cordoned off only by slashes of red paint on the sand. The novice in the center was burly and able-looking—a dark-skinned boy with a great scar that crossed his chest. Like Lucan, he carried a net and trident. He leered at Lucan while his trainer stepped up to speak with Stratos.

  The two men—master trainer and quaestor—spoke in hushed tones. Denarii exchanged hands, and a smattering of spectators moved closer as the anticipation of battle grew. House dignitaries, identified by three thin stripes on their tunics, moved about the rings, casting votes and paying owners for a postbattle sample of their “wares.”

  The business end nauseated Lucan, but he couldn’t deny the excitement that was building up inside him too. The clash of weapons, the shouts, the smells of sweat and men and blood. Tingles flashed fire across his skin, and he slung his net over his shoulder.

  His look must have been fierce, for an onlooker—a councilman by his robes—clapped Stratos on the shoulder. “He is ready to go, is he not?”

  “Oh, yes.” Stratos’s voice was unctuous. “We await only the word of the arbiter. Until then…” He sidled over to the fellow councilman and took him by the shoulders. They went off a way to continue their talk, leaving Lucan and Hektor alone by the side of the ring.

  Lucan glanced at his opponent. The bigger novice stood with another gladiator. A man with white hair—Reklos of House Lucia. He had only lost a score of times in his entire career. Aside from Hektor, he held the best record for wins. Lucan had never seen him without his red-plumed helm and great ax. He was surprised at how youthful Reklos appeared, his body tanned and scarred, but his face that of a man no older than ten and twenty.

  The way he leaned in as he spoke with his novice, his forehead almost touching the youth with the great scar—

  They’re lovers, Lucan realized with a start. He could not help but glance at Hektor. A yearning banked in his heart, and Lucan was quick to squelch it. Instead, he focused on his opponent.

  Hektor shook Lucan hard. “Pay mind to me, boy. Not to your surroundings. Ogling the flesh won’t help you when that boy is pummeling you with raw steel.”

  Ogling the… Was that a note of jealousy in Hektor’s voice? Lucan looked at him, but Hektor didn’t let up. “Listen. The boy has reach. He is taller, thicker. Don’t let him get his hands on you. If the fight goes to the ground, it will go ill with you. Get inside the reach of his net.”

  “Inside?” Lucan thought the idea ridiculous. To do that he’d have to race in, have to step into the very reach Hektor had just told him to avoid. “But I’ll be caught.”

  “Odds have been made.” A short, balding man stepped from the crowd. He was otherwise unremarkable, save for the clay tablet in his hands that identified him as an odds-maker.

  Lucan cast about. The skirmish was about to start. The advice Hektor had given him was poor—he knew it, could feel it in his very bones. He looked around wildly, but Hektor caught him by the shoulders.

  “Trust me.”

  “Trust you?” Lucan was incredulous. “Who’s the net fighter here? You can’t be seri—”

  “Fighters at the ready!” The arbiter called the gladiators to bout.

  Hektor held Lucan’s arm a moment longer. His sky-blue eyes were grave. “Inside.”

  Lucan nodded, though confusion made him unsteady. He stepped over the painted line and into the ring with his competitor.

  Great Scar was grinning, his desire to beat Lucan to a bloody pulp overwhelmingly obvious. His grin looked more like an animal’s baring of the teeth—a warning, an alarm in Lucan’s mind. He stepped in, lifting his net, testing the weight of his trident.

  The small crowd hushed.

  The tension broke as Great Scar lunged for Lucan. He made a side cast with the net, swinging it wide, nearly catching Lucan up in it. He managed to step back, but the weights clipped his shoulder. A sharp crack in the midday air. The crowd gave a smattering of applause.

  His arm numb down to his fingers, Lucan stayed light on his feet.

  “Pain is temporary,” Hektor’s words rang in the back of his mind. “Glory will resound through the ages.”

  But not if he kept backing up. “Get inside his reach.”

  Lucan darted a step closer. Great Scar cast again, and again Lucan tried to dance back. But he was too deep. The net wrapped round his trident, fouling the prongs, dragging them down toward the sand. Desperate, Lucan tugged back on his weapon, an instinct he knew was foolish.

  Great Scar cast the free edge of his net in, and caught Lucan’s arm up. Lucan dug in, shouting as his opponent dragged him in to spear him on his waiting trident.

  “Inside!” Hektor shouted.

  Inside? Closer? Lucan still didn’t understand. He was doing his best not to be dragged closer.

  And then, with one sharp tug, Great Scar yanked him in and leveled a fist at his temple. The blow staggered Lucan. In his stumbling, he twisted and tore free of the net, leaving his trident behind. Great Scar let him go. Lucan fell to the ground, tucking his own net close to avoid tangling himself up.

  That’s all I need.

  He could almost see Hektor’s disapproving look. But the world was a flash of sand and the white tunics of the councilors and other spectators as he rolled. Great Scar chased him, his net swinging. Sand kicked up from where the weights impacted, and Lucan rolled to his feet.

  His foot was an inch away from the painted line. If he stepped out, the bout was over. Great Scar knew it too. He stalked in, trying to corral Lucan toward the edge.

  Lucan waited. He waited. The past two weeks, lying abed and unable to train, Hektor had taught him patience—patience with his wounds, his limitations, and then, as he grew stronger, patience with his strength. It was only effective when used correctly, Hektor had said. That lesson had come hard-learned, but Lucan had learned it.

  The spectators paced the perimeter, watching the combatants, studying their moves. Lucan knew that the odds-makers were among them.

  Lucan glanced at Hektor. Hektor nodded.

  Inside.

  Great Scar cast again, and Lucan raced in. Close! He ducked the net, and it went over his head. He took the boy in the waist, bulling him down.

  “Not to the ground!” Hektor’s voice was sharp.

  Lucan quickly realized why.

  Twice his size, Great Scar easily flipped him, and now his weight bore down on Lucan, crushing him, squeezing his breath out in labored gasps.

  Lucan’s vision began to gray. Beneath him, the weights of his net dug into his ribs. If he could just move an inch… He struggled and strained, wrapped the weights around his fist.

  Great Scar seized Lucan’s foot and twisted his ankle. Blinding pain awoke in Lucan’s body. He heaved and, in a painful tug, won free.

  Lashing back with fist and weighted net, he caught the other novice in the temple. Unceremoniously, Great Scar went down, bleeding, disoriented. Lucan rolled up, panting, bloody, covered in sand, his blond hair wild.

  He knew he looked savage. He didn’t care.

  Great Scar was trying to crawl away. Lucan stepped in. All around the perimeter, the councilors and odds-makers were watching to see what he would do. Hektor nodded.

  “Never forget. It is first and foremost a Spectacle.”

  Lucan made a show of raising his arms high. His shoulder screamed in protest, but the shouts of even the small crowd drowned
it out. Giddy, he stalked to Great Scar’s net and picked it up. The cord that tied it to his opponent’s wrist was still intact, making it appear as though Lucan used him as a puppet.

  In one smooth move, he swung the net up and over Great Scar’s head and then lashed it around the novice’s neck. Pulling back, Lucan brought the dazed Great Scar to his feet and began choking him.

  The novice’s hands scrabbled back; he tried to tear at Lucan’s face, but Lucan kept his head tucked down tight. Great Scar got a small handful of hair. It wasn’t enough to count.

  His grip flagged as Lucan choked the consciousness out of him.

  Over Great Scar’s shoulder, Lucan glanced at the crowd. All eyes were on him, the throng thickening by the moment as their shouts and cheers drew others from nearby bouts.

  Reklos called some calm advice, but it was too late. Great Scar was going out. In the next moment, he sagged in Lucan’s grip.

  Lucan released him immediately, and the crowd began to disperse, some still cheering and clapping, others grumbling, disappointed that the odds-makers could have guessed wrong. The distinct clink of triens, even a scattered denarii or two exchanging hands punctuated the din.

  Unable to keep the smile from his face, Lucan fairly beamed as Hektor approached.

  The man’s body was perfection. He moved with the grace of a predator. And suddenly Lucan wanted all that male grace and strength for his own. He wanted to feel Hektor near him and inside him; he wanted Hektor to bend him over the table and fuck him hard and fast and then hold him as the sweat cooled on their bodies.

  Drawn by that yearning, he moved toward Hektor.

  Stratos cut him off. “Come.” He slid a heavily muscled arm around Lucan’s shoulders. “Let us have you see the healers, and then you can claim your prize in the morn.”

  “My prize?

  “Of course.” Stratos sent a sly look Hektor’s way. “The Victor’s Claim.”

  * * * *

  Lucan stormed into the racks, his face hot. He threw his net in the corner, savagely pleased when the weights crashed against the wood floor.